Therapy Bits

The midnight hour returns with silent tread,
While all the world lies wrapped in dreams so deep.
Yet I, unrested, turn upon my bed,
A prisoner where none but shadows sleep.

The ticking clock becomes a tyrant’s voice,
Each second stretched into a sleepless year.
My mind, unchained, forgets its quiet choice
And drowns in thoughts both distant and too near.

I count the stars like sheep that will not leap,
Their cold indifference mocking my despair.
I long for rest, the velvet depth of sleep—
Not this gray drift through stale and stifled air.

But still I wait, until the cruelest part:
The dawn that breaks, yet does not ease my heart.